


You're Growing On Me (Am I Growing On You?)

by gaypilots (tofallinlovewithafridge)



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Author!Newton, Baker!Hermann, Britishness, Domestic, Friends to Lovers, Ghost Drifting, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3733117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofallinlovewithafridge/pseuds/gaypilots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once firmly back in possession of their mental faculties, Newt and Hermann run. They wait for their usefulness to the PPDC to end. They carve out a life in a quiet corner of England.<br/>They know it won't last forever.<br/>But, sometimes, a moment can last forever, and a year even longer.<br/>This is not a story of escape, but of life after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Growing On Me (Am I Growing On You?)

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for off-screen car crash. Consequences thereof are also discussed.
> 
> Title from The Darkness' Growing On Me, which I listened to on repeat whilst writing, along with Worlds Collide by Louden Swain.
> 
> Written in nine days for April 2015's Camp NaNo. 
> 
> This is set in Britain, so there may be some references (and spellings) more suited for the British audience than anyone else. Sorry!! (But also not sorry)

As ever, Newt is woken up by Hermann's six thirty, pre-work shower. He's fairly certain that Hermann doesn't actually have to get up this early for work, but rather that he just does it to piss Newt off, wake him up, and possibly to prove a point.

He has a meeting in London today, and his train leaves in an hour, so instead of crawling back into bed and waiting for Hermann to offer him a coffee, he rubs a hand over his face and sits up. His room is brightly lit through his gauzy curtain, and he can tell already that it's going to be a hot day – that's going to be _awesome_ , spending seven hours on a train and then being in London on a really hot day. Among the miscellaneous mess across his room, he finds a pair of pyjama pants and a t-shirt, and pulls them on before walking out to the kitchen.

He knocks on the bathroom door as he goes past.

Before the question “coffee?” is even out of his mouth, Hermann responds, “Yes please!”

By the time Hermann is out of the shower, wrapped in his huge blue dressing gown, Newt is adding sugar to his coffee. Four sugars, actually, and from this, Hermann knows that Newt's worried about the day ahead.

“What're your plans for the day?” he asks, grabbing his coffee and sitting down at the wooden kitchen table.

“I've got a meeting with the publisher in London,” Newt says, hurriedly stirring his coffee. “I'm having lunch with Tendo as well, so that should be – good, that should be good.” He sits down opposite Hermann.

“Yes, except you're terrified.” Hermann says, leaning forwards. “What's the meeting about?”

“I don't know, man, I just know it's always bad when the publisher asks to see me.” Newt pushes a hand through his hair, and tries to push his glasses up his nose, obviously forgetting that he isn't wearing them, and hitting himself lightly in the face instead.

Hermann looks at him for a moment before standing up, grabbing his cane and walking over to the windowsill. “Time to medicate.” He throws Newt his pill box, marked out from Hermann's own in the pink sparkly flower stickers covering it, and returns to his seat, opening the box for 'Tuesday' and shaking out his own cocktail of drugs.

“Anti-epileptic?”

“Check.” Newt says, fishing it out.

“Anti-migraine?”

“Check.” Newt responds, struggling to get the second pill out of the box.

“Anti-psychotic?”

“It's not – it's not an anti-psychotic, but yes, check.” Newt says. “Anti-epileptic?”

“Yes.” Hermann's medications are already out on the kitchen table, so he simply nudges this one forwards.

“Anti-migraine?”

“Yes.” He repeats the motion with this one.

“Heavy duty painkillers?”

“Yes please.” On the count of three, they both take their meds, washing them down with coffee.

“Delicious.” Newt says with a grimance.

“Love the taste of anti-epileptics in the morning.” Hermann says, standing up with his coffee in one hand and his cane in the other. “Do you need a lift to the train station?”

“I thought you'd never ask.” Newt says.

Hermann turns away and rolls his eyes. “Some day I won't.” he threatens vaguely over one shoulder as he leaves.

 

Newt never really feels like an actual person on the seven thirty-nine train to London. At least, not like a normal one. He's surrounded by people in suits with normal, nine-to-five jobs, talking into phones and writing emails, and Newt just sits there, charging his tablet and looking out of the window over the ocean.

Even now, five years later, it's still an unusual sight to him – an ocean view, a real ocean view, without a wall cutting through it.

The journey, or at least this particular portion of the journey, is unusual anyway, in that there's sea, and then there's the train tracks on the land, and that's where the land begins. As ever, Newt looks down to see where the sea ends and land begins, but he can't.

It's unnerving, to say the least.

And Newt's already kind of unnerved, because he's going to London, and London unnerves him, and so does his publisher, and so does seeing – well, anyone, really, from the PPDC, because as much as he had and still has friends there, the PPDC still tried to use him as a lab rat on Drifting and Kaiju and hiveminds and everything, all this shit, like he was that Dutch guy in District 9, and Newt has some of his orange juice to calm down.

He tries to sit quietly for a few minutes, but the train begins to slow down for its next stop, so Newt rolls up his sleeves and puts in his headphones, picking something heavy to listen to. Nobody wants to sit next to some dick with tattoos and a liking for Def Leppard on a three and a half hour journey to London, and Newt doesn't want to feel crowded.

 

It works.

He stumbles off the train at Paddington, checking and double checking his Oyster card and the maps to make sure he's getting where he needs to go. He ends up in a tiny boutique French restaurant, sat in the blissfully cool wine cellar opposite Tendo, who's ordering a pitcher of sangria for them both.

“So, how've you been? It's been a year, brother, what's been going on?” Tendo asks. “Any more that you can tell me about your new life?”

“Not really,” Newt says. “Nothing's been happening. Hermann's still working, I'm still writing.”

“Can you tell me where he's working?” Tendo asks, and, seeing Newt's look, continues, “Come on, it's not like I know where you guys are. You can tell me what he's working as. Is it a plumber? I can see him as a plumber, actually.”

Newt pours sangria for them both, and nods. “He's working in a bakery. He tried to get some research published, for a bit, but it's harder under a pseudonym, and he's happy at the bakery.”

“Doesn't that involve a lot of standing around?” Tendo asks.

“He's got like a – hairdresser's stool. He zooms around behind the counter and in th kitchen. It's really funny.”

“That's awesome.” Tendo says, laughing. “But – I can't imagine he's much good with the customers.”

“He's gotten really good at the smile – you know the smile, man, the one which says 'have a nice day' while the eyes say 'I'm going to kill you'. He was good at it anyway, but man. Those looks are the closest I've ever seen to someone actually killing another person with a single look.”

“And your writing's going good?” Tendo asks. “Your stuff is huge in the Shatterdome. Of course, everyone knows it's you, but there's no official recognition of that.”

“Thank God.” Newt says. “Glad y'all are enjoying. Cheers.”

They clink glasses and both take a drink.

“So how about you?” Newt asks. “Anything new you can tell me?”

“Nah, brother, you know what they're like with their NDAs. Airtight. But it is pretty awesome stuff.”

“Yeah? You're liking it?”

“Brother, it is beyond anything else you've seen.”

Newt leans in close. “Anything I can incorporate into my works?”

Tendo laughs. “No way. They'd have my head on a stick outside Anchorage.”

 

They have a nice lunch and a fair amount of sangria before walking back onto the baking hot streets. Before parting ways, Tendo asks, “At least tell me this – you're happy? You've got a nice place, you and Hermann are getting on, and you're good?”

Newt takes a moment, and then looks up at Tendo, shielding his eyes from the sunlight. “Yeah. I'm happy. After so long touring Shatterdomes it's nice living rurally. We get on best we can, you know how it is. But I like writing and he likes baking and it's all good.” Newt shrugs. “We're good. Are you?”

Tendo nods. “More or less the same as before. Life in the Shatterdome's same as ever, I hardly get to see my wife or my kid, and it's all gotten a bit weird since the Breach closed, but the work's interesting. I'm happy.”

“You can't stay there forever, man.” Newt warns. “You gotta leave at some point. Don't care how interesting the work is, man, they've been really quiet about what that work is, and it's not worth sacrificing Alison and the little one for it.”

“I know, brother, believe me. It's just about finding the right time.” Tendo says.

“Or just do what we did and go on the run indefinitely.” Newt shrugs. “Same thing.”

“It's been good, man.” Tendo says, laughing. “We'll do it again soon.”

“Yeah, man.” They hug, briefly, and Tendo disappears down to the tube station. Newt sighs, looks up at the clear blue sky, and carries on walking.

 

Newt sits back down on the train at Paddington, iced coffee in one hand as he swings his satchel bag onto his lap. He takes a sip of his coffee, mumbles “Oh my God,” in relief, and then pulls out his phone, dialling a number.

“Hermann, hi, you're not busy are you?” Newt asks after a moment. “Okay, good. I met up with Tendo, and that was really nice, he sends love and friendship and everything else you hate. And then I met up with the publisher and I was really sweaty and nervous and they said they want to talk about my contract for the next few years and they've offered me a contract for three more books after the one left!” Newt waits, listening to Hermann's response. “I know, I'm the best. I'll be back at about quarter to seven, do you think you could pick me up? Please? Please, man, come on, my car's at home and you know what the buses are like. Great. Okay! Thanks! What's for dinner?”

On the other end of the phone line, Hermann is stood in a small bakery kitchen, on his break with his boss and eating some leftover cookies. “I was going to go to the shops after work to get some groceries,” Hermann says into the phone. “I know it's your job, but the journey from London's so long, and I'd like to eat before ten, so I'll do it. We should have something nice. No, not potato wedges. No, Newton, don't whine – fine, we'll have potato wedges. I'll save the nice meal for tomorrow and we can do a slow roast. Yes, okay. I'll see you this evening. Safe journey. Take your meds. You're welcome. Yes, I've already taken mine. Well done. See you soon. Bye, bye.”

Chris, his boss, looks up at him. “I've been with my wife more than half my life and that was the most domestic thing I've ever heard.”

Hermann glares at him, and eats another cookie.

 

“That journey will some day kill me.” Newt says simply, climbing into the passenger seat of the car. “I hate it. Why do we have to live so rurally?”

“Really? You have to ask?”

“No, I don't, but still. Three and a half hours from London by train. And yeah, it's a nice view with the sea but oh my God, man. Three and a half hours. By the end of the journey I feel like I've coalesced with the seat.”

“How was your day, Hermann?” Hermann mocks. “Did you have a good day at work? Is dinner coming along okay?”

Newt looks at him. “How was your day?” he asks after a pause.

“Fine. Got the shopping. Dinner's almost done. I decided to make spaghetti.”

“But you said –“

“Against my better judgement, it comes with an optional side of my famous potato wedges.”

“Yes, man! You're the best.”

“And don't you forget it.”

 

The next day is more normal. Newt goes to bed early, exhausted from the heat and bustle of the city, because apparently he's lived in Devon so long he's become elderly by association, and wakes up to the sound of Hermann showering. He gets up, they have coffee – this time, Newt takes his black, so Hermann knows today will be better – and go through their medication routine. Hermann leaves for work, and Newt finds some old croissants in the back of a cupboard, texts Hermann to ask him to bring some more home, and heats them up.

He calls his lawyer while he's eating the croissants, leaving her on speaker phone while he flicks one-handed through the contract he was given by the publisher, and tries to butter a croissant with the other. His lawyer knows by this point that he doesn't want to meet in person unless it's absolutely necessary, because she's based in Hertfordshire and _Gott im Himmel_ Newt does not want to make the trek to Hertfordshire. He knew he should have asked Hermann to look for places further north. The lawyer asks him to send her the papers by post, because it's the most secure way to do anything and Newt insists on it, so he scribbles down a short list of things he needs to do in town before heading out.

He buys an A4 envelope and posts the contract to his lawyer straight away, with record of delivery. He checks the PO Box he shares with Hermann, and then buys today's Guardian and a couple cartons of milk. He could buy bread in the little post office shop as well, but that would ruin his fun, so instead he walks out of town a little, towards the bakery.

Hermann is in there, looking annoyed whilst serving an older man who demands he takes pounds sterling, because “This is Britain, not Europe!” Newt watches as Hermann excuses himself to get the manager and whizzes off, on his stool, into the kitchen. Newt turns to get a loaf of bread from the shelves at the back and by the time he joins the queue, Hermann's returning on foot with Chris at his back, and the old man looks a little put out, because firstly, you can't publicly fight with a guy that walks with a cane, and secondly, you don't want to fight the six foot three guy at his back either.

Admittedly, Newt's always ignored the first rule, and has on many occasions fought with and lost to guys a lot bigger than six three – the drunken brawl he tried to start with Aleksis comes to mind – but in the end, the old boy pays with Euros, like everyone else.

Newt gets to the front of the queue and is served by the teenager at the till next to Hermann's. He's greeted by name, and whilst that is pretty cool, a proper taste of small-town life, it's also terrifying, because technically they're still on the run.

He gets a filled sandwich as well, and whilst Hermann refuses to make eye contact with him, he tells the kid to remind Hermann to take his meds with lunch. The kid looks bemused, but agrees to do it. Newt thanks him.

He spends the rest of the day in between revisions of his newest novel and daytime TV, flicking through the paper for inspiration, or something. He has the sandwich. He gets an annoyed text from Hermann at lunchtime asking him not to get his colleagues to remind him to take his meds, and another five minutes later saying, “Don't forget to take yours, you ridiculous man.”

Hermann gets home at half three to find Newt staring blearily at the TV with his laptop asleep on his propped-up legs and a newspaper open next to him. “A productive day.” he quips on his way to the kitchen.

“You know me.” Newt responds, and only looks away from the screen when Hermann returns to the doorway, leaning on it.

“What was the one thing I asked you to do today?” Hermann asks, attempting flippancy.

Newt thinks for a moment. “Uh... Get some milk? I got milk.”

“No,” Hermann says, tone betraying his annoyance, “I asked you to make dinner. Not even make it! Chop up all the ingredients and chuck them in the slow roaster.”

“Oh, yeah. My bad.”

“Newton.” Hermann almost growls. “For God's sake –“ he turns and stalks back to the kitchen.

“In my defence, I don't think you bought croissants home either!” Newt yells.

“That is absolutely not the point!” comes the response, and Newt smiles a little.

 

“We got some post, by the way.” Newt says by way of conversation starter over dinner. “I checked the PO Box.” They're both sat on the sofa, watching a quiz show on the TV.

“Yes, I noticed the small pile on the armchair. Anything interesting?” Hermann asks.

Newt looks up, makes a wiggly hand gesture at Hermann while he hastily swallows a mouthful of rice. “Bits and pieces. Handwritten letter for you.”

Hermann's eyes light up at this, and he hastily puts his bowl on the ground before leaning over to grab the small pile of envelopes from the armchair.

“That's for you... That's for you... That's for me... Aha!” Hermann proclaims, dropping the rest of the envelopes on the sofa between them, and Newt reaches out to sort the remaining letters – nothing else exciting, he notes, and all stuff that can be dealt with tomorrow – with one hand, whilst skewering a piece of chicken with a fork in the other.

Eagerly, Hermann opens the envelope, pulling out three sheets of paper covered in curly handwriting. A small photo falls out and Hermann delicately picks it up, smiling indulgently at it.

“Lemme see.” Newt insists.

The image depicts a young boy that looks exactly like Hermann, except short, chubby, blond, and infinitely better dressed. Newt awws.

Hermann reads out choice snippets from Vanessa's letter as Newt finishes his dinner, eyes lit up with a joy that is seen only rarely with Hermann, and Newt watches intently.

“Robbie's five now,” Hermann reads aloud, “and honestly the only word I can use to describe him is a tyke. He drives his teacher up the wall, but she's got a soft spot for him really. He's constantly messing around with things he shouldn't be.”

“Work's been steady,” he continues a few minutes later, “all is well. Finally got around to reading Newt's new novel,” Hermann elbows Newt a couple of times, “Love it! I'd love to talk with him about his ideas behind the kind of society he's presented.”

“It's all from old episodes of Jeremy Kyle,” Newt interjects. “Eat your coq au vin before it gets cold.”

Hermann picks up his bowl and eats distractedly and intermittently whilst he reads the rest of the letter, chuckling in places, and Newt – by mere virtue of the fact that the quiz show has finished and some antiques show has started – ends up seeing the exact moment that Hermann's face falls, the happiness that seemed to radiate from him just _ending_.

“Hermann, man, what's up?” Newt asks cautiously.

Despite the residual heat from the day, the room seems a little bit colder.

“Nothing.” Hermann says brusquely, folding the letter and replacing it and the photo in the envelope. “It's nothing. I'm going to go microwave this,” he says, grabbing his bowl and standing up, “you find us something to watch.”

“Oh, come on, man!” Newt says loudly to Hermann's retreating back. “Obviously something's happened. Is Vanessa okay?” He decides to abandon the TV, turning it off with a wave, and instead follows Hermann to the kitchen, taking his empty bowl with him as an afterthought.

“You're _seriously_ not telling me, after all we've been through?” Newt asks, putting his cutlery into the dishwasher. “I swear to God, I'm going to take apart our kitchen appliances and build another PONS so I can figure out what's going on with you.”

“New appliances will not be necessary,” Hermann says, although the way he's entering the numbers into the microwave is more violent than necessary. “Nothing is wrong.”

“Even if we ignore the fact that we've shared our brains,” Newt continues, “I've also shared a house with you for five years, and a lab for five years before that. Something is wrong, so just _bloody_ tell me before you either get drunk on expensive booze, and then tell me anyway, or refuse to leave your room for five days and then, I repeat, _tell me anyway_.” As he finishes, he notices his voice has gone up an octave or two, and he reigns it back in. Hermann has turned towards him, still stood in front of the microwave. The view of Hermann microwaving his dinner in front of a window, through which Newt can see the idyllic scene of fields of sheep lit by summer's evening sun, and, beyond that, the sea, mixed with Newt's feelings of _anger_ and _frustration_ and _compassion_ , is just ridiculous, it's all ridiculous. Newt groans, and puts his head in his hands. “I'm sorry.” he says finally. “Please tell me. It –“ he begins, and then takes a deep breath, mimicking the tone of voice his old counsellor told him to adopt when he was talking about problems, “it worries me when you are upset about things but won't tell me what.”

He looks up to see Hermann looking at him in exactly the same way as he was before. The microwave beeps three times; they both ignore it.

“Vanessa's met someone.” Hermann says, and without realizing it, Newt's said, “aw, fuck, man, I'm so sorry” and he's hugging Hermann.

Primarily what he feels is grief, and regret, and he remembers seeing a beautiful woman on an autumn day in the shade of a red brick arch, and her candlelit face over a potted orchid on a restaurant table, the gleam of a silver band in sunlight, and the joy he felt seeing her in that church, with the light cast by the stained glass windows dappling her white dress as she moves towards him –

Newt stumbles back, barely catching himself with one hand on the counter-top, and fears to look Hermann in the eyes.

“I'm sorry,” he says instead, to his socked feet, “I forgot.”

Hermann sighs, long and hard, and Newt sees his feet shuffle away, hears the microwave open and close. He closes his eyes, and next thing he knows, Hermann's hand is on his shoulder, carefully avoiding bare skin. He looks up.

“I'm sorry.” he repeats, briefly looking Hermann in the eye.

Hermann inclines his head slightly, and Newt feels relief wash through him. Hermann turns, goes back in the direction of the living room, but stops halfway.

“Bring the good whiskey.” Hermann says, and Newt's pouring the whiskey into orange plastic tumblers whilst Hermann's still getting comfortable again on the sofa.

 

“I think we just have to take it as good news, man. There's no haemorrhaging – as far as we know – and I only have a little headache.”

“They said it would fade with time.” Hermann says, curled up with his head tilted back over the arm of the sofa.

“Apparently five years is time enough.”

Hermann brings his head back up, has another sip of whiskey, and says, “Longest. Hangover. Ever.”

 

“You'd think, what with the whole interstellar war, that people would be sick to death of alien monsters, but actually people just want to read about them now.”

“Reminiscing about the good old days.”

“Yeah, man. Vast social inequality and the looming threat of the apocalypse. Actually,” Newt says, shifting in his seat so he's sat up straight, “I tell you what market _really_ increased with the K-war.”

Hermann looks up at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Human/monster erotica.”

Hermann bursts into laughter, loudly.

“No, man, I'm not kidding!” Newt says, leaning forwards. “Like, you could always get the $2.49 erotic e-books like _Taken by the T-Rex_ and all sorts of prehistoric or mythical creature gangbangs, but now? There's this huge market in Kaiju porn. _Taken by_ _Trespasser. Hardship's Hard On_. Stuff like that.”

Hermann is still laughing. “I call absolute bullshit on all of this.” he manages between breaths, doubled over on the sofa.

“Alright, then.” Newt says, cracking his knuckles and grabbing his laptop from the floor.

 

Forty minutes later, Hermann leans back as Newt closes his laptop. Slowly, he turns towards Newt. Newt's pouring himself another finger of whiskey, so does a double-take when he sees Hermann staring at him.

“What, man?” he says, before taking a drink.

Hermann continues staring.

“Come on, dude, what?”

“Tell me,” Hermann says slowly, “That you haven't made your name – or rather pen-name – and the money that pays our mortgage by writing Kaiju erotica.”

Newt blinks. “You're telling me you've never read _one_ of my books? Not _one_?”

Hermann looks a little panicked. “Is this you telling me that you write Kaiju erotica!?”

“No, man!” Newt says, before making eye contact with Hermann, ducking his head, and saying, “Well, yeah, but I don't publish that.” He laughs raucously at Hermann's scandalized expression. “No, I don't publish Kaiju erotica. If you'd read _any_ of my books, you'd know that.”

Hermann shrugs, relaxing a little back into the sofa. “I've had enough to do with aliens from other dimensions in real life, thank you. I don't want to spend my free time thinking about them, too.”

 

It gets dark outside, and cold inside the house. It's only when Newt's toes are going a little numb that he gets up to pull the curtains, turn on the light, and switch on the central heating for an hour. When he returns to the living room, having retrieved an additional pair of socks for Hermann, the older man is pouring them a gin and tonic each. He looks up a little guiltily when Newt walks in.

“We finished the whiskey.”

“You finished the whiskey,” Newt corrects. “Here are your socks.”

Hermann thanks him, and pulls the extra socks on. Newt watches. “I'll buy you slippers for Christmas.”

“You'll do no such thing,” Hermann says. “I have enough pairs of slippers as it is.”

“Oh, my God,” Newt moans. “You reached middle age way too early, man.”

Hermann looks up at him. He gestures first at his sweater vest, then his double-socked feet, then his cane, and then his reading glasses on a string around his neck. They make eye contact. Hermann says, “Deal wiv it.”

 

Newt's lying along the back of the sofa, feet just next to Hermann's face.

“I miss being able to _work_ , man. Writing's great, and it means I can literally design – design!” he says, waving his hands above him, “I can design monsters how I want! But I miss poking around inside a Kaiju. I miss having a lab. I just miss all of it, even the smell of Blue and the occasional urgent trips to the infirmary cause I'd accidentally ingested some Kaiju entrail or cut myself open on something. Ugh.” He rolls off the couch, onto his hands and knees, and stands up. “I miss it.” he whines petulantly.

“I miss working too,” Hermann says. “Even when you were pissing around next to me while I was trying to work. I even miss chalk dust.” he says, sitting up on the sofa as Newt perches himself opposite, on the arm.

“Being a civilian is _weird_.”

“You know the worst part?” Hermann says, giggling a little. “I miss filling in grant proposals. I even miss presenting them.”

“That's weird.” Newt says. “At least there's nothing stopping you from working. Me? Aside from the fact that Kaiju parts are pretty rare, obscenely expensive, and always damaged, and the fact that I have no access to laboratory facilities, I also will probably end up Drifting with any random part I have lying around. Yeah, it might be dead, but, fuck yeah, silicon-based life forms, man.”

“Our house cannot hold the amount of blackboards I would need.” Hermann says. “Does that count as a legitimate restriction?”

Newt makes a non-committal hand gesture, and when Hermann isn't looking, pulls out his phone, and writes something down.

 

Four and a half hours into the evening, Newt decides it's time to bring up the letter again. He tries to emphasise the already-there slight slur on his speech, just in case he needs an alibi for bringing it up.

“Did Vanessa say anything else in her letter?” he asks, aiming for slightly drunk and very casual, and in fact achieving very drunk and slightly casual.

“She said she wanted to meet up at some point. Spend some time with Robbie in the summer.”

“Oh, my God, man. We should go to the zoo with him.” Newt says, bringing his head back up from over the edge of the armchair to look at Hermann.

Hermann smiles a little dreamily. “Whilst I dislike that you assumed you'd be coming along, she also suggested that we go the zoo, and you come along because,” he says, holding a finger up in the air, “one, Robbie loves you, and two,” he adds another finger, “I have a doctorate in mathematics, Vanessa has one in Literature, whereas you have six vaguely biology-related ones, so you'd be a lot more help than the two of us if he has a question.”

Newt throws his arms in the air. “Zoo trip!” he yells. “We're going to the zoo, zoo, zoo, how about you, you, you?” he begins to sing, before being cut off by a cushion hitting his face. “Rude!”

From the sofa, Hermann sniggers.

 

“Christ,” Hermann says, checking his watch. “I'm working tomorrow. I should go to bed.”

“Aww, come on man, the night is young yet!” Newt cries dramatically. He's still draped across the armchair, whilst Hermann is stretched across the sofa.

“It's almost midnight.”

“See? Young!” Newt says, sitting up properly.

Hermann fixes him with a _look_ , although the way his eyes are slightly clouded with alcohol lessens the blow. “You're forty. Stop acting like a nineteen year old.”

Newt can only laugh at the irony of Hermann slurring that. He watches Hermann get to his feet.

“Some of us have actual jobs to go to tomorrow.” Hermann says, gathering together his things, as well as the letter.

“Oh, I'm sorry!” Newt says. “Who pays for everything because their baker housemate's wages go on paying child maintenance and gas?”

Hermann makes an obscene gesture in Newt's direction, leaning a little heavier than usual on his cane as he makes his way to the door. “Clear up in here before you go to bed?” he asks.

Newt nods. “I will. Might try to get some more edits done tonight.”

“Don't stay up too late.” Hermann says, leaving the room. “Goodnight.”

“Night, Herms.” Newt calls after him. He sighs, then stands up, stretching. He collects together the bottles of drink, in various states of fullness, and their empty glasses, heading through to the kitchen. He puts everything back where it needs to be, runs the dishwasher, and closes the curtains before locking the back door. He puts the newspaper on the dining table ready for Hermann to peruse the next morning, and then heads back into the living room, locking the front door.

He sits heavily back down on the sofa, his head a little foggy because, _gottverdammt_ , as much as he tries to ignore it, he's forty now. He's just locked up a _house_ that he _owns_ in the _Devon_ _countryside_ having spent the evening _getting drunk on the sofa_ with the bloke that has just sort of _ended up being his best friend_ and, apparently, _life partner_.

He feels kind of like Bill Nighy's character at _Love Actually_ , and just the fact that he's seen that movie is cause enough to despair.

To make himself feel better, he opens up his laptop and selects some early 2000's indie rock to listen to, and then starts looking at his manuscript, feeling productive for the first time that day.

 

Several hours later, light is beginning to filter through the thin curtains in the kitchen, and Newt is making another instant coffee. He's worked through the night, and he has a busy day lined up, so what he needs is – he spoons four sugars into his coffee and grabs a leftover chicken drumstick from the fridge, stifling a yawn as he pours hot water into his coffee and stirs. He must not give in now.

The notes that his editor has made are insightful, and he's about halfway through the manuscript now, working methodically and cross-referencing where he needs to.

He'd promised himself he'd stop at halfway, but Hermann will get in the shower soon, and his day will begin, so there's no point stopping now.

Newt stumbles back to his laptop, balancing his mug of coffee on the arm of the sofa. Might as well carry on.

 

Newt is awoken by the sounds of Hermann getting into the shower. It's louder in the living room than in his room, despite the fact that the rooms are on either side of the bathroom. He'd forgotten how noisy it was, but, since it's been several months since the last few, panicked days and nights of writing before his deadline, that's not a surprise.

He is surprised, however, that he's managed to fall asleep, half eaten chicken drumstick congealing a little on his laptop track pad, and coffee absolutely stone cold.

He's more surprised when he jumps awake with something cold pressing into his nose.

“Fick mich!” Newt yells, recoiling instantly and almost knocking his laptop off his legs, pushing the end of Hermann's cane away from his face.

Hermann sniggers.

Newt swears at him, rights his glasses, then puts aside his laptop and picks up his coffee, trying his best to mop up the grease that's come off the chicken drumstick that he no longer feels comfortable eating.

He follows Hermann to the kitchen and puts on the kettle whilst microwaving his own coffee, and they go through their usual routine together.

“Did you sleep well?” Hermann asks, a little smug, and Newt scowls.

“I did a lot of editing and rewriting before that _lapse_.” he says haughtily.

“See?” Hermann asks, slowly getting up and going over to the counter to hide a couple biscuits in the pocket of his dressing gown. He folds the day-old newspaper under one arm, and grabs his coffee with his left hand. “I told you you're getting too old for the all-nighters.”

“I am a pioneer of artificial tissue replication. I will find an anti-aging serum, and then we'll see who's laughing.” Newt says grumpily.

Hermann's still laughing when he leaves for work.

 

From a window, Newt watches Hermann leave, and jumps into action, putting on fresh clothes (and, while he's at it, putting a wash on) before grabbing his wallet and keys and driving into town. He only has one stop, and it's the DIY store on the outskirts.

The owner has an incomprehensible Devon accent, but Newt manages to muddle through, finding what he needs and paying for it. He's even offered a cherry menthol sweet for his troubles.

He gets back home quickly, knowing that he needs to start soon for it to be done by the time Hermann gets home, and frowns over the instructions for a bit before moving as much as he can away from the wall of the kitchen and dining room. He figures it's the brightest lit room, with three windows and the back door, and all the cupboards and everything are white, so it shouldn't look too dark when he paints over it.

He masking tapes over all the important bits, like the door frame, and where the wall meets the ceiling, before tipping some paint into the tray thing and starting.

Fifteen minutes in, he gets down from the chair he's had to commandeer in order to reach the top of the wall, even with the long handled paint roller, and goes to put on some music, deciding on an old 'throwbacks' play list.

He paints evenly, trying to avoid uneven patches, because the tin of paint he bought will barely cover the area he needs it to, and stands back when it's done, looking proudly on his work.

He apparently missed a trick by not becoming a painter and decorator.

He's washing out the empty tin of blackboard paint when he realizes he doesn't have any chalk.

 

He's not done yet, he knows, so he staves off the exhaustion by brewing himself a very strong coffee, and goes into Hermann's room.

He spots the letter on top of his desk, and, thankful that he doesn't have to rummage any further, grabs it, sitting down in the living room with some lined paper and a nice pen, leaning the paper against his laptop.

He tries to keep his handwriting legible – effort enough in itself – and starts writing.

_Dear Vanessa,_

_It's Newt here, how are you? I hope you're okay. I'm okay. I should have drafted this before I wrote it._

_Hermann was very happy to hear from you. I know it's difficult to keep in touch with our security precautions, so I'd like to thank you for that. I don't normally write to you, but I wanted to talk to you, about everything, so. I'm writing._

_I'm not writing to talk to you about your new person. It's great! Congratulations. I hope they treat you and Robbie well. Hermann's happy that you're happy, or he will be. He accepted a long time ago that what with our current and lifelong predicament in relation to fleeing from a worldwide almost-military operation a proper relationship between you guys is gonna be pretty much impossible to keep up. I would ask on his behalf (because I know he won't) that you won't ask your new person to anything with Hermann, unless he asks._

_I don't know if this is a dick move or not, talking to you behind his back, but I'm just trying to look out for him. I'm sure you wouldn't surprise Hermann with something like that, but it bears reminding, I guess?_

_This has kind of turned into a letter about your new person, sorry._

_Say hi to Robbie for me. I'd love to come to the zoo with you guys, if you're offering!! I mean I specialize in xenobiology amongst other things but I know some basic stuff about tigers and penguins and stuff, so it'd be cool to talk to Robbie about it. He should come over soon, stay for a weekend. I know we live a long way away, particularly for a five year old, so it's probably not possible, but I think Hermann would like some time to hang with Robbie. Not too much time, though. Don't want Robbie thinking his dad's a grumpy old fuck or anything..._

_Before I go, I'll say this – a lot of the semi-dystopian society in my book was based on old episodes of Jeremy Kyle. I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone that!!!!_

_I hope you're okay, and I can't wait to see you both soon._

_Love (in the 'I've Drifted with your husband and feel an impression of his love for you in my own mind' sense) Newt xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

More or less happy with what he's written, Newt folds the letter into a small envelope and copies Vanessa's address onto the front of it. He puts the letter back where it was and makes himself a sandwich for a late lunch. He eats it on the sofa whilst flicking through his annotated manuscript, and then heads into town to buy a stamp and post the letter.

He also pops into one of the touristy tat shops, finding some multicoloured chalk and a novelty mug with a brightly coloured, smiling crab holding a bucket and spade on it. By the time he gets back home, the paint's almost dried, and Newt puts the chalk into the mug, placing it on top of the dining table in the middle of the room. Then, he sets an alarm for an hour's time, just before Hermann gets home, and goes to his room, asleep before his head hits the pillow.

 

He wakes up to the loud alarm, groggy and disoriented and angry. Grumbling, he staggers through to the living room, rubbing his eyes and trying to look like he's been awake all day, because otherwise Hermann is going to laugh at him some more.

When he hears a car in the gravel driveway, he opens up his laptop and annotated manuscript, to look as though he's been thoughtfully considering a particular annotation.

Hermann blusters in through the door, throwing a bag of scavenged croissants onto Newt's lap and complaining about the clutch in his car.

“Honestly, who drives a manual any more?” Newt asks of him, but Hermann's already out of the room, still talking about getting his clutch looked at, and Newt jumps up, grabbing the croissants and hoping he hasn't missed the look on Hermann's face when he notices it.

Hermann hasn't stopped talking, so Newt assumes not, and stands in front of the doorway, waiting for Hermann to turn around from his tea-making and see the new addition to the house.

Hermann turns to get some milk out of the fridge, looks up at Newt, and then stops in the middle of a sentence about the incompetence of the local mechanic.

“Tadah!” Newt says, holding his arms out, the bag of croissants hanging lamely from one hand.

Hermann's face is blank, and he stands there, fridge open and carton of milk in the hand, for a long moment.

“It's a blackboard wall.” Newt says, as though it isn't immediately obvious. “You said you missed working, and I know it's not enough to actually work on, but I thought it would be nice for writing shopping lists on, and things I need to do while you're at work, because I know I'm crap at remembering those, and maybe you can do some very simple maths on it, and we could write appointment reminders and such, and, I just thought it would be cool.”

“Newton,” Hermann says calmly, closing the fridge and putting down the milk. Newt is, for a moment, a little scared. “This is very cool.”

“You think?” Newt's terror flees him; he's grinning _so_ hard.

“It's – it's very cool, Newton,” Hermann says, smiling a little. “Truly, it is.”

“Awesome, man! I'm glad you think so!”

Hermann walks over to Newt, standing next to him while they both look at the wall for a moment.

“We're gonna have to be careful not to scratch it with anything,” Newt says, “because one pot barely covered the wall, and we'd have to get a new one to touch it up with, and that stuff's expensive.”

Hermann turns to him. “Newt, you can stop freaking out now. I like it.”

Newt looks up at him. “You're sure? I can paint over it. We still have the tin of the old colour –“

“I am certain.” Hermann turns back to face the wall, and carefully reaches over to put a hand on Newt's shoulder and pull him close for a moment. Newt sticks his bare arms out, wary of any actual skin contact.

The moment ends when Hermann says, “Good lord. How long has it been since the last time you showered?”

“Tuesday?” Newt ventures a guess.

“Please go shower.” Hermann says, shoving him in the direction of the bathroom. “I've decided it's officially time to open up my summer wardrobe, so I'm going to get changed and then I'm going to sit down for a bit and then I'm going to make dinner. Barbecue ribs sound good?”

Newt gives a thumbs up above his head from down the corridor, still visible from the kitchen door.

* * *

 

Weeks pass. Newt almost finishes his revisions, and manages to convince Hermann to take some time off around his birthday, leaving them with a four-day weekend.

Vanessa convinces Hermann that this should be the weekend that they go to the zoo.

So they spend their Friday evening with a bottle of white wine between them, gazing at a table drawn on the chalkboard, with one column for each day. Saturday is already filled out with 'Zoo!!' in big capital letters, and underneath Monday is a crude drawing of a sunny beach. Hermann had objected to this, of course, but Newt won him over with the promise of cooking for them both all four days.

On Sunday, they decide, Hermann's actual birthday, they're going to go out for a nice roast dinner. This is at Hermann's behest.

“You're so middle-aged!” Newt complains, but checks that he has the money to treat them both anyway.

Tuesday, it is decided, will be a day of rest. They will stay in, probably wearing slippers and listening to Radio 4, if Hermann has anything to say about it.

Newt's satisfied with this vague plan for their long weekend, but Hermann is less so, resulting in a brief argument about whether or not they should draw up a driving rota for going to the zoo. It is an argument which Newt loses, and in retaliation, he steals Hermann's cane to use as a pointer while he's drawing up the rota on the blackboard, banging it emphatically as he's seen Hermann do so many times whilst they run through it.

They're driving across the country and back tomorrow, nine hours in the car for maybe four at the zoo.

It is a daunting challenge, but Newt's planning take out for dinner, and has already packed the menus in the car so they can call ahead and order.

With some emphatic gesturing at his leg, Hermann decides that they will take it in shifts to drive, and because Newt has little to no bargaining power on this subject, he ends up doing the majority of the shifts.

 

They leave just before half seven the next morning. Hermann's made sure that Newt's had enough sleep the night before, and, because Newt's taking the first (and longest) shift up to Bristol, he gets to pick the music.

Because Newt doesn't want to cause a fight just yet, he picks a soundtrack.

Whilst Drifting with another person does not replace one's own preferences with their Drift partner's, the two preferences are often merged. This has left Hermann with an embarrassing penchant for Rammstein, and Newt with a rekindling of the love for Chopin that his parents instilled in him at a young age.

Newt found, very soon after the Drift, that the best way to resolve the conflict between these two preferences was original scores – not musicals, because unless it's Rent, Hermann hates musicals – but TV and movie soundtracks. It's the one thing they can agree on, musically.

He picks the Game of Thrones soundtrack to start with, because firstly, he and Hermann have spent so much time watching and rewatching Game of Thrones that they have perfected the harmonies for it, and secondly, because he's fairly certain that during this monster return journey, one of them is going to kill the other.

They pull out of the driveway in Hermann's car, because _of course_ Newt is insured to drive it, he's not an _idiot_ , and similarly Hermann made sure that Newt could drive stick, because _he's_ not an idiot either. Newt reaches over to press 'play' on his iPod before looking meaningfully at Hermann. They idle in the middle of the small country road outside their cottage. Newt hums the first few seconds, then gestures at Hermann to join in.

He doesn't, just looks at Newt, expressionless.

Newt sighs, and restarts the song.

After this happens twice, Hermann gives in, and by the time they're on the main road out of town, they're both yelling their parts and grinning like fools.

After that, he puts on the soundtrack from the BBC adaptation of Sherlock, and Hermann nods in appreciation. “An oldie, but a goodie.” he says. It's the first time they've spoken yet.

 

They swap at a service station just before the M4 crosses the M5. Newt has conveniently correlated their stops with places that sell coffee, so they get a coffee and a bagel each before getting back into the car. Hermann doesn't change the music.

They swap again at the end of the Sherlock soundtrack. Newt hates the M5 with a passion, so picks a compilation of the best pieces of score for Marvel movies, even though he knows Hermann doesn't really like them, and this begins a sort of war between them.

This is Hermann's fault. When they swap, just before the junction with the M25, Hermann hovers over Weber on the iPod.

“No.” Newt says, breaking their comfortable silence. “I hate Weber. You _know_ I hate Weber.”

“Then why is there Weber on your iPod?” Hermann asks, unreasonably, in Newt's opinion.

“Because you, for some mysterious reason, like Weber, and whilst it is my iPod, it stays in your car.”

Hermann hums, pressing play. “You're right. My car.”

“You are fighting a battle you will not win!” Newt cries, as Hermann turns up the stereo.

Hermann almost doesn't stop when they turn off the M25, but then Newt points out that there's another hour left in their journey, and only half of that will be spent on the motorway, so Hermann reluctantly yields control of the car and the stereo to Newt.

Newt plays Right Said Fred.

Newt sings along.

Newt wins the battle.

 

By the time they pull into the car park at Colchester Zoo, Hermann is glowering at Newt. Newt has spent the past half an hour playing a techno playlist of his own design, very loudly, and when he parks up next to Vanessa's car, in the shade of some rather impressive birch trees, Vanessa stood next to it and waving, Hermann stumbles out.

“You have saved me!” he cries, throwing himself into Vanessa's arms.

Vanessa looks confused, and Newt gets out of the car, walking around to her. She looks to him for explanation, and he shrugs. “We had a music related disagreement.”

Hermann stands up properly, mumbles something that sounds very much like, “It's lovely to see you again”, and kisses Vanessa on the cheek.

It's at this point that there's a yell, and a boy jumps out from behind the car. Hermann stumbles back with a hand over his chest, grinning.

“Good lord!” he exclaims, and gets down on his knees on the gravel to hug the boy.

Vanessa turns from the exchange back to Newt, the two of them smiling at the exchange. “Newt.” she says, and they hug quickly. He'd forgotten just how _tall_ she is. “How are you?”

Newt nods his head. “I'm good. And you?”

“Me too.” Vanessa says, and they both turn back to see Hermann getting to his feet, Robbie's hand in his own.

“Hi.” Newt says, and waves at Robbie. Robbie waves back enthusiastically.

They head to the zoo entrance, where Hermann insists on paying for their entry. Vanessa only acquiesces on the condition that she will buy drinks and snacks when they're in, and Newt has to smile at just how British it all is.

When they walk in, Robbie immediately taken with the owl enclosure, Newt hangs back for a moment, whispering to Vanessa, “I'd forgotten how tall you are.”

Vanessa looks at him and laughs. “I'd forgotten how short _you_ are.” and like that, there's familiarity that wasn't there before.

 

Newt spends the day feeling a lot like a big brother to Robbie, or a cool uncle, and he is relieved. He had feared, a little, that he'd end up being the weird drifter loner friend that's always hanging around – sort of like Nick Frost in _Shaun of the Dead_ – but it all seems to work out okay.

He distracts Robbie enough with some cool facts about seals that Hermann and Vanessa get time to talk things over, sat together on a bench, and if he's a little worried about how that might turn out, his fears are assuaged when they return side by side, smiling slightly at each other every time they make eye contact. It's cute for an hour, and then it's sickening.

Vanessa has thought ahead enough to have brought a picnic lunch for the four of them, so they spread out a colourful blanket on a sunny patch of grass and share some Pringles. Newt playfully fights with Hermann over who should have the cheese sandwich and who should have the ham one, until Robbie leans over, swapping half of the cheese sandwich for half of the ham sandwich. Hermann looks at Newt, exasperated.

“You have six doctorates, and you didn't figure that out,” he says, gesturing at the sandwiches.

Eloquently, Newt sticks his tongue out at him, earning a giggle from Robbie.

 

When they're done, they sit together around a picnic bench, each with an ice cream. Hermann clears his throat, and all three look at him, expecting something profound.

“So – what's this new person like?” he asks Vanessa, voice a little scratchy.

Newt looks at Vanessa. She takes a deep breath, and says, “He's nice. He's an author, actually.”

This piques Newt's interest. “Anyone we'd know?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

Vanessa goes a little pink around the ears, and has some of her ice cream. “Martin Dorsey?” she says.

“What.” Newt says. Hermann looks at him sharply. “You're dating _the_ Martin Dorsey?” Newt asks, ignoring Hermman's look. “Bestselling fantasy author Martin fu- freaking Dorsey? Oh my God. I love him.” He notices that even Robbie's looking at him a little oddly, and turns to Vanessa, holding out his hand. “Congratulations on your excellent choice.” Vanessa shakes his hand tentatively, and at the sound of Hermann's little pissed-off noise, Newt adds, “Not that Hermann isn't! But fascinating as abstract mathematics is...” Newt tails off. “Martin Dorsey. _God._ ”

Newt spends the ensuing silence regretting every single thing that just came out of his mouth.

“Do you like him?” Hermann asks Robbie, sounding a little strangled.

Robbie nods eagerly. “His head's a weird shape.” he proclaims.

There's another pause. “I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing,” Newt says before nodding sagely, “but he is an awesome author.”

 

The conversation moves quickly on from there, something for which Newt thanks any deity listening, and they chat about what Hermann's doing for his birthday, what Newt's going to get him (to which he responds, “It's a surprise!”, which isn't exactly a lie, because Newt has no idea what he's going to get Hermann for his birthday), and if they have any plans for the summer.

They don't, but Vanessa and Robbie are planning on flying out to Hong Kong for two weeks. Hermann asks why Hong Kong, and Robbie says, cheerfully, “we're going to the museum to learn all about the Kaijus!”

Newt's objection to the pluralization of Kaiju is automatic, and overruled by Hermann's panicked, high-pitched hum, and look at Vanessa.

“That might not be such a great idea.” Hermann says slowly, not breaking eye contact with Vanessa. “It might not be safe.”

“Why not?” Robbie asks angelically.

Vanessa nods after a moment. “He's old enough.”

Hermann takes a deep breath, turning to Robbie, next to him on the bench. “Well, you see, Newton and I – the PPDC want to talk to us, run some experiments on us, because of what we did to close the Breach.”

“Don't be silly, dad.” Robbie says. “That was Gipsy Danger and Striker Eureka!” He does some martial arts-esque hand movements. “Everyone knows that!”

“Yeah, it was,” Hermann says, “but we got all the information that let them do that.”

“What did you do?” Robbie asks again, eyes wide.

Hermann leans in closer to Robbie. “This is a secret, and you can't tell _anyone_.” He whispers in Robbie's ear, and Newt sees his eyes widen even further.

“That's so cool!” Robbie says, but, seeing Hermann put one finger over his lips, he mirrors the gesture.

 

Later, as they're leaving, Hermann says, “I'm sorry. Hong Kong isn't safe, for either of you. They'd give anything to know what we know.”

Vanessa sighs. “I thought so. I wish I'd told you in a letter instead, but it was Martin's suggestion. He doesn't know about what you did, just that you're on the run. I'll tell him no tonight.”

“You could always come stay in Devon,” Hermann says, a lightness in his voice that is just barely forced. “Much safer there.”

 

Just before they depart, Hermann crouches down in front of Robbie, hold him by the arms, and says, “The only reason I can't see you is because it might not be safe. If I could see you every day, I would.” Robbie just hugs him.

When it's Newt's turn to say goodbye to the kid, Robbie stands in front of him, hands on hips, and says, “Look after my dad.”

Newt laughs, and picks him up to hug him. “I always do, don't you worry. You'll see him soon, I promise.” He puts Robbie down, telling him to get into his car seat as he spots Vanessa gesturing at him to come over while she's hugging Hermann. He approaches, standing back as they say goodbye.

While Hermann's getting into the car, Vanessa opens the boot of her little three-door, handing Newt a huge, light blue gift bag, about the same size as his torso. “Presents for tomorrow from us.” she says, nodding in Hermann's direction, and Newt responds with a wink.

“Consider it done.” he says, smiling, and Vanessa hugs him suddenly.

“Do look after him,” she says. “I know, you have been for years, but – well,” she shrugs, “I love him, what can you do? He's my husband. And we can't be together, not really, and we can't have a relationship again, but that doesn't stop me caring for him. So – don't you leave him, Samwise Gamgee.”

Newt is taken aback a little at this, but all he can do is smile a smile that he hopes isn't as watery as it feels. “I won't. I promise.” He shifts the gift bag to his hip so he can hug Vanessa properly, and just before she turns away, he suddenly says, “Wait.”

Vanessa turns back to him.

“Do you think that getting a dog would be a good idea?” Newt asks on a whim, not even sure where the idea's coming from. “I'd walk it and spend time with it, but do you think he'd like having a dog around the house?”

It's at this point that Hermann decides to pop up, saying, “Are you two quite finished?”

Newt bends double to hide the gift bag. “We're done,” he says, “get back in the car, you grumpy old git.”

Hermann grunts huffily, but complies, and Newt only has time to see Vanessa give him a thumbs up before she leans into the back seat of her car to buckle Robbie in.

Newt puts the bag in the boot of the car, slamming it shut and getting in.

“What was that?” Hermann asks.

“What was what?” Newt responds innocently. Hermann grumbles.

They toot the horn twice as they reverse out of their parking spot and leave, waving as they go past.

 

The first part of their drive, weaving along country roads towards the M11, passes in silence, and it's not as comfortable as the silences that have been shared through the day.

It's only when they're queueing at a Starbucks in a Welcome Break just before the M25 that they talk.

Newt says, “If I get some _stroopwafel_ , do you want one?”

Hermann responds with, “I can't believe you did that.”

Newt ponders this for a moment. “I'll get some _stroopwafel_.” He grabs a bag and orders his drink with two extra shots. “Did what?” he asks Hermann as the girl behind the till writes his name and order on the cup.

Hermann glowers at him. “You _fanboyed_ over my wife's new boyfriend.”

“See, when you put it like that –“ Newt says, paying with a handful of change.

Hermann tuts, and orders his own coffee, but Newt sighs as he digs his wallet out of his pocket and starts scrounging for some change, and says, “I'll pay.”

Hermann glares at him. “No you won't.”

Newt looks at the girl behind the till, who's waiting with raised eyebrows for the money, jams a hand into his pocket, and counts out the coins before Hermann's got his out of his wallet.

“Look, I'm sorry.” Newt says, rubbing a hand over his face as they wait for his mocha. “I just opened my mouth and the words kept coming out, I couldn't stop them, I knew I needed to, I just couldn't.”

He looks up at Hermann, who sighs, and bumps their shoulders together.

“I know.” Hermann says.

“I am _really_ sorry.” Newt says.

 

“Does your leg hurt?” he asks as the two walk back to the car with their coffees. “You've been driving and walking pretty much all day.”

“It's not bad,” Hermann responds, “but it's not much fun.”

“Alright.” Newt says, and runs to the driver's side of the car before Hermann can get there.

“This really isn't necessary.” Hermann says as he sits down in the passenger seat.

“I feel bad, man. If it makes you feel better you can do the bit on the M5.”

Newt starts the car, and Hermann just has to resign himself to the only thing worse than driving on the London Orbital – being a passenger on it.

 

“I can't believe you let me go on the M25 at rush hour.” Newt complains a couple hours later as he gets back into the car, sitting down heavily in the passenger seat. “I cannot believe you let me do that.” They're parked outside another service station, this one with a big M&S Food.

“I didn't have much of a choice in the matter,” Hermann says. “What did you get?”

“Smoked salmon sandwich for you, ham and mustard for me, two bottles of water and a tube of Pringles. Once we turn off the M4 we can call ahead to the Chinese and put in an order.”

Hermann leans back in his chair, opening his sandwich and taking a bite. “With all the troubles going on in the States, who actually has time to –“ he starts reading from the packaging, “ethically source Pacific salmon?”

“There aren't any salmon in the Pacific any more. Those that weren't eaten by the Kaiju were poisoned by the Blue. They're kept in huge farms now.”

“Doesn't sound very ethical.”

“There's still Blue in the water, tiny traces that aren't harmful unless you replace your blood with seawater, or happen to be water-dwelling.”

Hermann nods thoughtfully, taking another bite before saying, “Relatively ethically sourced, somewhat-Pacific salmon.”

Newt puts his feet up on the dashboard, has some of his ham sandwich, and says, “Better than Blue-soaked salmon facsimile.”

“This isn't just Blue-soaked salmon facsimile,” Hermann begins, and Newt joins in, the two of them saying together, “This is _M &S_ Blue-soaked salmon facsimile.”

 

“Do you think Robbie thinks we're gay?” Newt asks as they drive through the darkening Devon country side, almost, finally, home.

“ _Why?_ ” Hermann asks.

“I dunno. We live together. In _Devon_.” Newt answers.

“You say that like it's more likely to make us seem gay. It's not, it's Devon. If anything, it just makes us seem more elderly. Now, if we were living together in, say, Blackpool, then yes, people would assume we're gay.”

“So because we don't live in Blackpool we're not gay? Wow, Hermann, that's closed minded.” Newt teases.

“Newton, do shut up.” Hermann snaps, but he takes a moment, and when he speaks next, his voice is softer. “Anyway, I don't mind what Robbie thinks. He already calls you Uncle Newt.”

“What. You're kidding me? Really? He calls me that? That's adorable, oh my God.” Newt says, putting a hand over his heart. “That is too cute! Oh my God, Uncle Newt.”

“You can tell you were an only child.” Hermann dead pans. “Of course he calls you Uncle Newt, we live together.”

“That is so sweet.” Newt says, and when Hermann looks over, he sees, in the orange light of a summer's evening, Newt's smile, and the shine in his eyes.

 

They pick up their Chinese order and finally stumble in through the door, Newt throwing the bag on the coffee table before throwing himself on the sofa, while Hermann goes to get bowls and cutlery.

“Wine?” he calls through.

“Please.” Newt groans. “Do we have any white?”

“You think I'd have _red_ with my chicken chow mein?” Hermann says, appearing in the doorway and balancing a bottle of wine, two small bowls, cutlery for two, and wine glasses with one arm.

“Shouldn't have asked.” Newt says, sitting up and turning on the TV. “Want me to find a movie?”

Hermann puts everything down, looks at Newt, and says, “No. I think we should just enjoy the blissful, blissful silence of a house without a five-year old in it.”

Newt looks at him, opening cartons of rice. “I don't think that's gonna last very long, man. You share a house with _me_.”

“That is true. Perhaps we should find _Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends_ so you can entertain yourself while the grown-up eats.”

“You know what?” Newt says, laughing. “Fuck you.” He reaches for the TV remote and one-handed finds the _Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends_ movie, fending off Hermann with the other. “You want to watch _Thomas and Friends_? Do you?”

Hermann groans as he sees Newt press 'play'. “But it's my _birthday_.”

“Not yet, you fuck.” Newt says, spooning his chicken in black bean sauce over his rice. “I can do what I want.”

 

“But it's my _birthday_ ,” Hermann says the next morning, as they stand next to his car. “I don't want to _drive_.”

“But I drove so much yesterday!” Newt objects. “And you were right, there's definitely something wrong with your clutch.”

“I'll take it in next week. My point still stands!” Hermann cries. “Are you really going to make your disabled friend drive to his own birthday meal?”

Newt sighs. “When you put it like that.” he says begrudgingly, grabbing the keys from where Hermann's dangling them and stomping round to the driver's side.

 

Hermann decides to have the roast dinner, because whilst he may be German by nationality, he's been living in England way too long. Newt, on the other hand, has ham, egg, and chips.

Hermann argues that this in itself is an indicator of living in Britain too long. Newt argues that it's chips, and therefore an indicator of just how long he's spent in the US. Hermann points out that the fact that he even calls them 'chips' means that he's been living in Britain too long.

This leads to a long discussion about accents, and exactly how Hermann ended up with such a perfect British accent at all times when he's spent so much of his life in Germany, and whether Newt still sounds like an American, or if his accent is more of a midway point between American and British.

This ends with the arrival of desserts, Newt wondering if it's too couple-y if he asks for a bite of Hermann's sticky toffee pudding before Hermann asks if he could _possibly_ have some of Newt's ice cream sundae.

They swap bites and appreciation of one another's dessert choices, and are almost done when Hermann says, “I notice I am yet to receive any presents.”

Newt shrugs. “That's cause nobody likes you.”

This is, of course, a lie. Chris will be popping round mid-afternoon with a cake made specially for Hermann, and Newt's already put the gift bag on the dining room table, ready for their return. Having decided, spur-of-the-moment, that getting a dog would be a good present for Hermann's birthday, Newt's also added in something small.

Hermann glares at him. “At least I network with other people.”

“I do network!” Newt says, waving his spoon around. “The people in shops know my name! That's enough!”

“Not enough for you to get presents from more than just me, Mako and Raleigh, and your mother for your last birthday.”

“I would have gotten more if we weren't on the run.” Newt hisses.

“And whose fault is that?” Hermann asks, having his final bite of sticky toffee pudding with a little more sass than necessary.

“Oh, I'm sorry for saving the world!” Newt says, a little louder than necessary.

Hermann shushes him, and they make eye contact, and suddenly neither of them can stop laughing.

 

Inside the gift bag is a bottle of what Hermann describes as the best Scotch on the market, and a haphazardly wrapped but surprisingly tasteful sweater vest in burgundy. The note in the card (which reads 'mini hippo returns!' on the front of it, along with a small drawing of a hippo saying, “I'm back!”) says that Robbie wrapped it himself.

At the bottom of the bag is a card in a red envelope, which Hermann picks up with trepidation, and a confused look at Newt.

Newt had made the card last night, because he always makes really shitty cards for Hermann, and he's also got this little stack of brightly coloured envelopes he uses that he's had since Hong Kong. He'd managed to pack them along with limited items of clothing. He'd actually chosen to pack them rather than his his only non-stained smart shirt.

Hermann opens the envelope and pulls out the card to see a crudely drawn birthday cake in the middle, with 'Happy Birthday Hermie!' written around it in rainbow colours. It was not Newt's best effort.

The inside, however, he was very proud of. He watches Hermann's face carefully as he opens it, sees the slight raise in one eyebrow and twitch of one corner of his mouth, the tiny movements giving away his happiness despite the exasperation in his voice as he speaks.

“Really?” he asks, turning the card around so Newt can see.

At the top, across both halves, reads 'IOU'. Below is a drawing that barely resembles a dog, because Newt can draw correctly annotated biological diagrams, but he can't draw something simple like a dog or a car to save his life. Below that is written '<3 Dr Geiszler'.

“I don't know to what you could possibly be referring.” Newt says.

Hermann turns it round again so he can look at it. “Me neither.” He sighs. “I hope you don't expect me to _walk_ the horse-creature you've designed.”

“It's a dog,” Newt explains, “and not unless you volunteer to.”

Hermann looks at him. “Newton –“

“I know, I have a history of impulsive decisions, but I swear, I've thought about this! Kind of. I'm here all the time, so it wouldn't have to be left alone very much. We're in the middle of the countryside, so I can take it for walks wherever, and I'd walk it unless you asked to. And I'd pay for it. All you'd have to do is come with me to pick a dog, feed it occasionally, and pet it.”

Hermann stands up, putting down the card, and says, “You just want something in the house with a similar mental capacity as your own.”

“If you don't want a dog, we don't have to get a dog. I'll get you a dog stuffed toy instead.” Newt says, holding up his hands in surrender.

“No – I want a dog. Thank you, Newton.” Hermann says, looking at Newt through his eyelashes.

“Happy birthday, Hermann.” Newt says, standing up, and Hermann hugs him.

He looks down to see a little – it must be a spaniel, with those ears – brown and white with paws and ears way too big for it, still and cold, and he sees his mother mashing up some cat food and holding it in front of the dog that he's still clutching to his chest, and he remembers the fear when his father came home, and the argument between his parents that went long into his night, and hugging his mother for being on his side the next morning, and the long, stony silent car journey with his father to the rehoming center.

There's a knock on the door and Newt jumps back. Hermann falls conveniently into the chair he was sat on, cane hitting the clay tiled floor with a clatter.

Newt stutters something about going to get the door, and takes a few deep breaths on his way to the front door, closing his eyes before throwing it open.

“Chris!” he exclaims.

“Hey, Newt,” Chris says with an easy grin. “Got some cake for the birthday boy.”

“Oi, Hermann!” Newt yells, hoping that Hermann looks vaguely normal, and not like they've just accidentally Drifted, _again_.

Hermann looks normal. “Chris,” he says, walking over and smiling. “Would that be for me?”

Chris holds out the white box that is undoubtedly full of cake. “Happy birthday.”

Hermann takes it and thanks him. “Do you want to come in?” he asks.

“Nah, I won't, mate, I've got kids waiting. Thanks for the offer though. Have a good one, I'll see you on Wednesday. Happy birthday!” he calls as he walks back to his idling car, waving goodbye.

“Thanks, man!” Newt yells after him. They stand in the doorway, waving goodbye as he leaves.

One's Chris has pulled out of the driveway, Newt closes the door, leans against it, and just looks at Hermann.

He knows Hermann too well, he realizes as he stares at him. His mouth is drawn in, so he's disappointed – probably with himself, Newt thinks, but also probably with him – and he's exasperated, but he's also happy, maybe because they're getting a dog, or maybe because he's holding a cake that promises to be great, and is also just for the two of them.

Newt wonders what Hermann can read from his own face.

“I'll put the kettle on,” Newt announces abruptly, taking the cake from Hermann on his way past, but not quite looking at him. “Tea?”

“Yes please.” Hermann says quietly, taking a moment before following Newt into the kitchen.

Newt puts the cake on the table before preparing two cups of tea and grabbing a knife, three plates, and two forks, putting them next to the box as Hermann opens it, before laughing.

Newt leans over to see a note in the top of the box, reading, 'The kids helped' and a cake covered in smooth chocolate sauce.

The professional look is a little ruined by the inexpert iced writing across it, reading, if one concentrates hard enough, “Happy Birthday Hermann!” with a smiley face below it. There are also slight dents in the sauce where the tip of the icing pump or a finger touched it.

Hermann loves it, that much is clear to see. Carefully, Newt lifts the cake out of the box and onto a big plate, whisking it across to the counter and ignoring Hermann's protests.

He makes them both tea first, making Hermann sit down in the living room with his cup before fishing around in the drawer with all their miscellaneous baking goods in it, finding the '4' candle that's been on top of both their birthday cakes this past year, and opening the '1' candle that he bought the other day. They don't match, the four is a lot bigger and red, whereas the one is smaller and blue, but he's sure Hermann will appreciate the sentiment. He sticks them both a little unevenly in the cake, lighting them with the orange lighter that he always has in his pocket, mostly because Hermann objects to it, and carrying the cake through, beginning to sing.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you...”

Hermann glares at him, dead-pan, when he sets the cake down on the coffee table.

“Happy birthday, dear Hermann...” Newt drags out the note longer than it needs to be, falling to his knees behind the coffee table and looking up to the sky for dramatic affect, “Happy birthday to you!”

When he looks back at Hermann, he's still glaring a little.

“You ridiculous man.” he says, and Newt gets up, dusting himself off a little.

“Come on then, birthday boy,” Newt jibes, “make a wish.”

Hermann closes his eyes. “I wish Newton would stop being so bloody _annoying_.”

“Ah! You told someone! Now it's not going to come true!”

Hermann flips him the bird, takes a moment, and blows out the candles.

 

“No, man, no more. We've got bacon sandwiches for tea.”

Hermann looks wistfully at the remaining half of the cake, sighing. “It'll keep.” he says finally.

“I'll get it,” Newt says as he sees Hermann getting up. “How about you find us something more scintillating than Antiques Roadshow to watch?”

“Songs of Praise?” Hermann suggests. “Countryfile?”

“I don't even know how these shows are still running.” Newt groans as he leaves. “Surely everyone who used to watch them is dead by now.”

“Unfortunately, ageing happens, so there's always an audience.” Hermann responds. “Should we watch a movie?”

From the kitchen, Newt yells, “Sure! What's a good summer Sunday evening movie?”

Hermann doesn't respond.

When Newt returns to the living room to see Hermann with a shit-eating grin on his face and downloading _The Imitation Game_ , all he can say is “ _No_.”

Hermann shrugs. “It's my birthday.”

“No way, man,” Newt says, sitting next to Hermann on the couch and turning to him. “Please don't make me watch this. You know what I get like about this movie.”

“You cry.”

“Yes, I cry! Why don't you? It's upsetting!”

“The only upsetting thing about it is the historical inaccuracy.”

“Fuck you, man.” Newt says, falling back into the sofa. “This movie is so upsetting.”

They watch it. Newt cries.

 

“It's really not that good.” Hermann says as the titles begin to roll.

“Would you shut up.” Newt hisses, a little red around the eyes. “I hate you. I hate this movie.” He throws a cushion at Hermann, softly.

“Don't be so mean to me. It's my birthday.” Hermann tosses the cushion back to Newt, who doesn't make an effort to catch it. “Make me a bacon sandwich.”

“You're so demanding.” Newt complains. “I'm too upset to do anything.” In order to illustrate this point, Newt slides off the sofa and onto the tiled floor. “Ugh.” he groans.

Hermann leans over and prods Newt with his cane. “Get up.”

“Hmm.”

Hermann pokes him again. “Get up.” he repeats.

Newt gets up off the floor, looks at Hermann, and then looks away. “I shall salt the bacon with my tears.” he says, walking away huffily.

 

Newt places a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich in front of Hermann before sitting down across him at the dining table and tucking into his own sandwich.

“I suppose,” Hermann says a couple minutes later, “If one overlooks the historical inaccuracies, it is quite a good movie.”

Newt has his mouth full, so instead just gestures broadly at Hermann. “Thank you.” he says a moment later with a hand in front of his mouth.

“So when are we getting this dog?” Hermann asks a minute later.

Newt brightens at this, brightens a lot. “I was thinking maybe Tuesday? Since tomorrow's our beach day.”

“See, I was thinking –” Hermann begins.

“No, you're trying to get out of our beach day!” Newt says. “Come on, we live so close to the beach, and we never go.”

“If we get the dog tomorrow,” Hermann continues regardless, “We can spend a day going to get dog supplies, and have a home check if we need one.”

Newt pauses. “That makes an annoying amount of sense.”

Hermann leaves him to think on it for another couple of minutes.

Newt sighs. “Ugh, fine. We'll go get the dog tomorrow, but we'll take it to the beach as soon as possible to walk it.”

“You know I can't walk on the beach.”

“We'll walk it along the promenade and down the pier then! Come on Hermann, you can't take this from me. We _will_ go to the beach.”

Hermann decides this is an argument for another time.

They spend the evening in each other's company, bickering over what to watch and what kind of dog they want. They don't talk about the Drift.

 

They go to the Dog's Trust the next day, filling in the questionnaire before being told that they're _the perfect family_ for a dog by the girl with brightly coloured hair behind the counter.

She takes them back to meet the dogs. The only point that the two of them could agree on the evening before was that they didn't want the dog to be a “tiny, yappy rat-thing”, as Hermann put it, so they go look at some of the bigger dogs. For reasons “related to both my leg and Newton”, Hermann doesn't want anything that's too over-excitable, which means they pass over the adorable but possibly brain-damaged black lab, despite Newt's protestations.

Eventually, they end up face to face – almost literally – with a huge greyhound. The dog's just standing there, not jumping or running or even barking, just staring.

“It looks aloof.” Newt says. “It reminds me of you.” he elbows Hermann.

“This guy's called Jake,” the girl says. “He was rescued from Ireland two months ago, he's an ex-racer. Not that that makes him over-excitable,” she adds hastily, “Greyhounds are just big lazy couch potatoes that like to leg it occasionally. I had one growing up.”

“He's not in with another dog?” Hermann asks.

“He likes his space.” the girl says simply.

Newt and Hermann look at each other.

“I like him.” Newt says.

Hermann looks back at the dog, and then at Newt again. “Will he be Jake Gottlieb-Geiszler, or Geiszler-Gottlieb?”

 

“Bear.” Newt announces as he leads the greyhound onto the verge, letting a car pass on the narrow road.

“We're not calling him Bear.” Hermann says, a little way ahead.

“Fido? Rusty? Rover?” Newt suggests.

Hermann turns around. “ _No_.”

“Hermes?” Newt suggests, and Hermann glowers at him. “What? He can run fast.”

“Sonic, then.” Hermann says, starting to walk again.

“Don't tempt me, man.” Newt says, watching the dog walk. His head comes up past Newt's hip, grey with white spots over his ears. “Oh, my God.” Newt says suddenly. Hermann turns around again. “Godzilla.”

 

The conversation continues through a Pets At Home as well as a furniture store and long until they're back home, Newt suggesting Cecil, Boris, and Tom until Hermann declares enough, and pulls up a dog name generator on his phone.

They go through a few pages until Hermann stops, pointing at his screen, and whispering, “Newton.”

“What?” Newt asks.

“That's what it suggests. Newton.” Hermann turns to him, glee in his eyes. “Your name is a dog name.”

“Just –“ Newt manages to hit 'more names' on the page before Hermann pulls his phone away.

Names are suggested and discarded. Less than five minutes later, Hermann selects 'more names', and it is Newt's turn to laugh.

“Your name's a dog name too!” he cries. “We're calling him Herman.”

“It's spelt completely differently.” Hermann proclaims.

“So we can call him Herman?”

“No.” Hermann selects 'more names'.

 

“That's it.” Newt says, pointing at 'Cagney' on Hermann's screen.

“Cagney?”

“No. Scully.”

Hermann stares at him. “How did you – I don't care.” he considers the name for a moment. “Scully.”

“Scully.”

Hermann sighs, closing the screen. “Scully Geiszler it is.”

 

They go back to pick him up next Saturday.

He barely fits in the back of Hermann's car, but he likes being in there, and they take that as a good sign. He gets into the house and they let him explore, Newt following him round to prevent him from eating anything interesting while Hermann sits on the sofa and reads _Retired Racing Greyhounds for Dummies._

“Did you know, greyhounds can't walk up stairs unless they're taught to?” Hermann calls from the living room as Newt is trying to prevent Scully from eating anything too important on Hermann's desk.

“Too bad we live in a bungalow.” Newt responds, shooing the dog from the room. “Did the girl not tell you everything you could possibly need to know about greyhounds when we picked him up?”

“She was very nice.” Hermann says distractedly. “Should we give Scully his new collar?”

Scully finds his way into the living room, claws clacking on the tiled floor. “Yes, hello.” Newt hears Hermann say, and walks into the living room to see that Scully's face is at exactly the same height as Hermanns while he's sat on the sofa.

Hermann looks up. “This could be a problem.”

Newt shrugs. “Whatever. Present time!”

Hermann leans forwards to undo the collar the Dog's Trust had given him, simple and black, and says, “I can't believe how much he doesn't _care_ ,” when it comes off without a struggle.

Newt sits next to Hermann and strokes Scully's neck. “I have a present for you.” he says softly, and Hermann rolls his eyes.

“I cannot believe you're already using the pet voice.”

“Shut up, Hermann.” Newt says, still using his pet voice. “Here we go, boy,” he says, unwrapping a square of tissue paper to reveal a light blue, paisley patterned collar. “Is that cool?”

 _No_ , Hermann thinks, but it does look nice once Scully's wearing it.

“I even got you a matching blue lead for walks.” Newt says, dangling it in front of Scully.

“Oh, my God.” Hermann says. “How are you more affectionate with our new dog than you are with your best friend? The best friend that you've shared a house, a lab, and a brain with?”

“Because Scully is cute.” Newt says, kissing the top of the dog's head.

 

* * *

 

 Scully likes the armchair, it turns out, and resting his head on cushions while lying on the floor, and he particularly likes being able to sleep in a room with someone else, mostly Newt. He whines every time Hermann leaves the house, and he really likes eating tuna.

Newt loves him.

Hermann likes him because it's like having a cat around the house, except a cat that can only be allowed outside into the unruly garden with supervision, and can reach food that's on top of the dining table. It helps that Hermann doesn't have to walk him.

In late August, the summer's at its peak. Even the breeze coming off the sea does little to cool the air down, staying outside too long makes Newt's skin feel dry, and no matter how much sun cream he puts on, he's perpetually mildly sunburnt. He gets back from walking Scully in the afternoons and wishes that he, too, could justify plunging his face into cool water.

He really misses Boston, sometimes.

Even Hermann's dressing down now, wearing only a button-down shirt and some of those ridiculously baggy old man trousers to work. He glares at Newt when he walks in most days, bright red in the face despite the fact that he rolls the windows down in his car on the journey home, jealous of Newt's boarding shorts, he guesses, or the fact that he can just stay at home wearing floral boarding shorts in the dark all day.

Newt's finished his revisions now, spent a fortune printing out his manuscript and posting it to his editor, but he can't have people knowing the face behind the pen name. He's thankful, it means that he can stay at home and not worry about things for a bit. He's started thinking about his next novel, actually.

There are things missing from Newt's life that he cannot get back. He wants to see Mako again. He wants to return to academia. He wants to see his family. But these things aren't feasible, and he accepts that, more or less, eventually.

So, those things notwithstanding, Newt is comfortable in his life. Hermann consistently beats him when they watch University Challenge together, but that's better than before, when there was nobody that could come close to Newt's score. The dog sleeps in his room almost every night, so he feels awkward jacking off, but there's always the shower. He feels a little bit at a loss for things to do, sometimes, but then he looks at the board and sees the partially complete extensive map of Westeros that he's drawing, and spends some time examining that instead of his own life choices.

He's stood at the kitchen counter in only boxers and still sweating as he cuts up bits of chicken for tonight's stir fry when he gets the call. He doesn't bother checking caller ID, just quickly steps over Scully where he's lying on a blanket spread across the tile floor, splashes his hands with hand soap and warm water before pressing 'answer' and then 'speakerphone' quickly, and with one finger, leaving drops of water on the screen.

“Y'ello.” he says, in the vague direction of his phone, as he returns to the chicken thighs.

“Hi, I'm Amy, I'm from Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital. Am I speaking to a Mr Gees-ler?” Newt doesn't respond. He no longer feels warm. Slowly, he puts down the knife. Amy from Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital apparently takes his silence as an affirmative. “We're calling you to inform you that Mr Gottlieb was in a traffic collision this morning. You're listed as his emergency contact.”

 

As he pulls out of the driveway, he sees Scully with his front paws on the windowsill, watching him leave. He waves.

 

Newt hasn't been this scared since they got out of Hong Kong. He collapses into the battered seat next to Hermann's bed and rests his head in his hands.

He might have a speeding ticket or two coming in the post in the next couple of days. He doesn't care.

Hermann looks small, and a little bit grey, and actually weirdly like a frog. Newt turns his head, squints his eyes a bit. Yeah, he definitely looks like a frog.

But a frog with nice cheekbones. He's still a pretty frog.

He giggles a little. Hermann must never know that he just mentally referred to him as a 'pretty frog'.

He puts his head between his knees and breathes until the image of a frog in a tutu is out of his head. _Is this hypoxia?_ he wonders.

He sits up, looks at Hermann's pallid face again, the cast on his wrist, the drip in his vein, and because he can't help himself, he reaches out to take Hermann's hand.

What he sees is darkness, cool but a little tight around his chest, and he feels vague discomfort in the areas of his neck and wrist. In his head, Newt asks, hello, and nothing answers.

Newt has always hated silences.

He fills the darkness with images, and noise, and emotion, thinks about how he felt when he found out he got into MIT, when he received his first doctorate, the buzz you get when you're drunk but not too drunk, and then the first Christmas they had when they lived together, the good kind of drunk on Bailey's and Buck's Fizz and compromising on ham instead of turkey because they did Thanksgiving just a month earlier because Newt _loves_ Thanksgiving, it's his favourite holiday, and he thinks about waking up that Boxing Day, still on the sofa with Hermann, legs a little entangled, and he thinks about the feeling when he first got published and how they celebrated together, and he thinks about Vanessa and their zoo trip and Scully, and all of this positivity, all of the joyful chaos they have experienced, he pushes it all towards the darkness.

And then there's a cool hand on his shoulder, an unflappable voice asking, “Sir? Sir?”, and he's being handed a plastic cup of water while someone else presses some tissue paper to his nose.

Newt takes deep breaths through his mouth and brings a hand up to hold the tissue paper in place. He cracks an eye open to see nurses above him, and one patient, an old guy who's saying, “I just found him like this.”

He shuts his eye quickly, because it's sending a lightening bolt of pain through his skull, and instead gives everyone a thumbs up.

They leave him alone, eventually. After a while, he can see well enough that he can make his way to the bathroom, and he just looks in the mirror for a bit, squinting.

He cleans up as best he can, but there's nothing he can do about how colourless he looks now, or the slight bleed in his sclera.

He splashes some cold water over his face and walks out of the bathroom, still squinting as he navigates the white corridors back to the room Hermann's sharing with a bunch of other guys. When he gets back, he sees a nurse standing over Hermann's bed. He panics for a moment, then realizes he's probably just checking Hermann's vitals. Newt walks over, sits down, and says, “How bad is he?”

“Doped up on painkillers, mostly.” comes a woozy voice from the bed.

“Holy – Hermann?”

“Tis I.” Hermann says. “Could you call Chris and... Tell him I'll be in late?”

Newt looks at him. “You fuck. You absolute _fuck_.”

“I'm alive.” Hermann says, shrugging.

“Hey, don't pull a – don't pull a me!” Newt says. “I was terrified, man! Fuck you! I was terrified!” Newt laughs nervously.

The nurse finishes checking over Hermann and mumbles something about coming back later, smiling apologetically at the two of them. They both ignore him. He scurries off.

“I am sorry.” Hermann says, sighing. “Pass me some water.”

Newt complies, a little light-headed. “You almost _died_.”

“A lorry ran a red light in the centre of town.” Hermann says. “ _Other people_ died. _I_ just got rear-ended. I have two broken ribs, mild whiplash, and a fractured wrist.”

“Okay,” Newt says, readjusting his world-view slightly. “Okay.” he sighs, puts his head in his hands. “Do not do that to me again.”

“I shall endeavour not to. For a start, this is extremely unpleasant, despite the painkillers.” he pauses. “I'm going to go back to sleep now,” he says, a little dreamily, looking up at the ceiling tiles. “It was weird... The nurse said you're not meant to dream on this sedative, but I had a bunch of really vivid dreams about last Christmas, among other things.” he looks back at Newt. “Maybe it was just my life flashing before my eyes.” he smiles. “Your subconjunctival haemorrhage isn't giving anything away.”

Newt closes his left eye. “Don't know what you're talking about.”

“Sure.” Hermann says, looking back up at the ceiling. “Don't worry about me. Get back to Scully. Come see me later. Bring pyjamas and books. I have to stay overnight. And Newt?”

Newt looks up at this, confused.

“I'm a fucking rock star.” Hermann says, his voice tailing off until he's back asleep, out like a light.

“That's my line.” Newt says.

He buys himself a cheap pair of sunglasses before he drives home.

 

Hermann comes home the next day and spends it in the living room with the blinds drawn, cuddling Scully. Newt goes to have a look at the remnants of Hermann's car, and manages to salvage his iPod. He starts filling in the paperwork for the insurance claim.

 

By simple virtue of not having a nine-to-five job, Newt looks after Hermann.

Admittedly, things aren't very easy for Hermann right now, given that a fractured wrist and two broken ribs aren't conducive to being able to use his cane, and the neck brace makes him look a little bit like a Cyberman. He appreciates the help, deep down, underneath all the grumbling.

 

Chris brings them some cupcakes and tells Hermann he's put out a jar for donations on the counter, that he'll be getting all the proceeds from it.

 

Newt bans the news in the house, because two people died in the crash, and one's still in intensive care, and Newt's fairly certain there's some survivor's guilt going on with Hermann.

 

They get a worried letter from Vanessa three days later. Hermann dictates his response to Newt, unplanned and in record time, and Newt takes it to the post office the moment it's sealed.

 

Everything turns out okay.

 

Hermann's bandages come off the grazes on his ribs to reveal some spectacular bruising that reminds Newt a little of the Northern Lights. His neck brace comes off not long after. Hermann's still having trouble getting around, but less so, and the hospital have provided him with a crutch for the time being.

 

When Hermann's off the super heavy duty painkillers for his broken ribs and back onto the normal heavy duty painkillers for the chronic leg pain, he gets drunk on the good whiskey and cries a lot into Scully's fur. Scully doesn't mind.

 

Hermann goes back to work. Chris has raised €90 for Hermann with his donations jar in the two and a half weeks he's been off. They spend that money on getting Indian delivered from the really nice place on the other side of town.

 

Hermann's cast comes off. The bruising fades. He returns the crutch to the hospital, and Newt can see the abject relief on his face when he can use his cane again.

 

Everything turns out okay.

 

They have a long talk, one evening. _Hermann, you're the reason those people were still alive anyway. And therefore the reason they've died. That's just pessimistic, man. You saved the world. Five and a half billion people owe you their thanks. We saved the world, Newton. Us. Yeah, us._

 

_You Drifted with me when I was unconscious. Yeah, I did. It wasn't fun. I think it was because it was one-sided, I had to do all the work. The ghost-Drift, the semi-Drift, whatever it is, do you think it's going to go away?_

_No. I don't think it's going to go away, not completely. But the symptoms are fading. I mean, the time before – there was barely anything after that._

 

_Will our lives ever be normal?_

_Well, first we saved the world, and now we're living below the radar of the transcontinental pseudo-military that wants to experiment on our brains._

_Silly question._

_There are degrees of normal, I guess. We're still normal. We have a house. We pay our mortgage. You pay child maintenance. We have a dog, for Christ's sake. We might be genius refugee world-savers, but we still pay tax._

_That's true._

 

_I never actually hated you, Hermann. I hated your stuffy rules, but I didn't hate you._

_I never hated you either, Newton. You're unruly and have no respect for rules, but at no point have I hated you._

 

And later that evening, when it's properly dark out, moths pressing themselves against the cracked-open windows, and Scully's asking to go to bed, Newt says, “Hermann.”

Hermann looks at him, a little flustered but mostly curious, and it's the same look Newt's seen a thousand times before, in a lab and in the streets of Hong Kong, stood next to an estate agent outside a small cottage in rural Devon almost five years ago, in the kitchen in the mornings when Newt's about to ask if he wants a coffee, and on the Friday evenings when he's about to ask if they should watch a movie together.

Newt's sure that Hermann sees all these images when he leans across the sofa and kisses him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I loved writing every single part of this. Every single scene. Some bits were harder to beat into shape than others, but I loved every moment I spent writing, and I'm very proud of this work. This is my first Pacific Rim fic, and my first completed work in two years. This movie seriously inspires me.
> 
> Shout out to bubble-o-seven.tumblr.com for the beta, and the patience.  
> Follow me on at strikereurekavevo.tumblr.com, or on twitter: @drgeiszlerpls
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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